Mukhuh mamkhihi khal
by ncis-lady
Summary: He watches the orc and hears the sound of its ragged breathing. He can smell the fear as he bends low and narrows his eyes. "Barku khuzd ai-menu." - Bifur during the Battle of the Five Amies. Missing scene from my fic "Choices", but can be read as a stand-alone one-shot.


Hey,

this is a missing scene of my story "The choices we make". I waited quite a long time until I found the courage to write about Bifur, but now that HobbitCon is coming nearer and I want to submit some fics for a fanfiction project for William Kircher I thought I'd give it a try.

I did my best with the Khuzdul, the Dwarrowscholar has made all the stuff available online and for downlaod and I used his grammar rules and vocabulary list. I'm still not 100% sure, though, so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.

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**Mukhuh mamkhihi khal (May we find peace)**

He never wanted this to happen. Yet as he finds himself in the middle of battle, Bifur embraces it and surrenders to the grey and red. His throat is sore as battle cries rip from it and still he never stops screaming. He yells and screams and stabs his spear into every orc that appears before him, he feels the blood pumping hot in his veins and doesn't blink as black blood spurts from a dying orc's throat and onto his face. His vision is white at the edges and he loses all sense of time as he feels himself falling deeper and deeper into the maelstrom of war.

His mind is blank, it often is, but this is different. There are no thoughts that he can grasp, there is only rage and despair and overwhelming fury that keeps him going. Around him they are falling, orcs and elves and dwarves and men alike, equal in the face of death, and Bifur never even stops. He never looks at them, for he knows who he might find among the bodies that litter the ground, it's the only clear thought that echoes in his head and it's the one thought that he wants to push away. He hasn't seen his friends in a long time, because that's what war does. It separates families and friends, it tears apart everything that was once good and whole, he has learned that many years ago.

A shadow behind him makes him turn around, reacting instinctively and too fast for the orc that never has a chance as Bifur pushes the spear through its abdomen. He sees the light fade from the weirdly small eyes, the look of surprise on the ugly face, but his mind is set on the next enemy before the body of the orc even reaches the ground.

He never stops, he doesn't know if he even breathes, there is a rushing sound in his ears that mutes all noises, the screams and cries and the dull thuds of falling bodies. He stumbles once or twice, cursing as he trips over the corpse of an elf whose mouth is still half open in a soundless cry, and as his vision becomes tinged with red at the edges everything becomes a blur, the only distinct shape that of the orc before him.

And suddenly time stands still. The world comes to a halt, the figures seem to freeze where they are fighting all around him, and he cannot breathe, cannot move, for he _knows_ that face. In a sea of unknown soldiers it stands out from all the rest, and nothing matters to Bifur but him and the orc that stands just as rigidly as the dwarf.

Memories come crashing down on him in that moment. Scenes that he hasn't seen before his inner eye in decades resurface, he is shaking, holding on to his spear that is his lifeline in the eye of the storm. His heart is beating wildly and yet it seems to stand still as he finds himself back in the Blue Mountains, feeling the pain of an axe sinking into his skull and the agony of watching his friend drown in his own blood, so close yet out of reach, he can _feel_ it, and it is the strangest sensation that kindles a fire inside that he has never known before. No rage, no grief, nothing can compare to this beast that stirs in him and that guides his hand as he drives the sharp spear into the orc's unmoving body.

With the most sickening sound the weapon tears skin and flesh, black blood spurts out of the orc's twisted mouth as the orc falls onto its back and stares up at Bifur with wide, terrified eyes. He should leave, turn around and _just leave_, Bifur knows that, but the beast inside growls and bares its teeth, and before he can stay its hand the beast reaches to his forehead, grabs the iron axe and pulls. The sharp pain makes him wince, he can feel the blood pouring down and dripping into his eye, and he keeps telling himself that he shouldn't have done that, yet the beast doesn't care.

He watches the orc and hears the sound of its ragged breathing. He can _smell_ the fear as he bends low and narrows his eyes, and when the beast speaks it is a deep, guttural growl that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

"Barku khuzd ai-menu."

The orc gasps as the dwarvish axe is buried in its head, and then the body becomes limp and moves no more. Black blood runs down the side of its face, and it is then that the beast retreats and vanishes in the shadow whence it came.

Bifur stumbles back, eyes set on the dead body before him, and for a moment he doesn't know what it is that feels so weird all of a sudden.

Peace.

It is a strange thought, for there is no peace all around him, the battle is still fully raging and people are still dying. But the dwarf caught in its middle is calm. Gone are the fury and the madness, he even waits for them to return, but the beast must have taken them with it. The rushing sound in his ears is gone, too, although he almost wishes it was still there for now the cries are even louder.

Suddenly the world starts to swim before his eyes, and the shapes before him take on a red hue as he drops to his knees. He realises that it is the blood that is dripping into his eyes and that he ought to do something about it, but he doesn't act. He falls back, he can feel the soft ground underneath, and it doesn't matter that the earth is slick with blood, it doesn't matter that around him people are still fighting, for here, in this place, he has found peace. The sky is red above him, red as the blood in his eyes, and huge birds are but mere silhouettes in the distance, black against the light of the sun that miraculously still finds its way down onto this nightmare. The birds – could it be the eagles? – are shrieking, and for some reason they make Bifur think of home.

The home he once had, his home before the dragon came, his home where he was young and made toys for the children of Dale. Of the thousands of memories that are well hidden in a corner that the beast has never touched one comes forth as he watches the eagles. A small wooden figurine of a bird, its wings moving as he pulled the thin strings, a moment of peace that he has never found again until now.

Bifur knows that his mind is clinging to these memories because he is fading. He is dying, and it should scare him. And he doesn't want to _die_, Durin knows he has ever been a fighter, even at his lowest he has never given up, but now he feels that he would be alright should Mandos greet him in his halls.

The noises grow fainter. He isn't sure whether it means that the battle is coming to an end, or that it is only his life that is ending.

It doesn't matter now. It was worth it, all of it, if only for this feeling of peace.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment, just for a brief moment, because he is so _tired_, just for a moment –

"Bifur?"

He knows that voice, he would recognise it anywhere although there is a slightly crazy edge to it now that doesn't sound right.

"Oh Mahal, no, come on Bifur, look at me!"

There are hands shaking him, touching his face, his arms, and there are words, spoken almost hysterically, reaching him through the static in his ears.

He blinks.

"That's right, open your eyes. Iskhab zai me, kasamhili! Look at me."

The sun is blinding him as he pries his eyes open. The frenzy of battle has reduced to an eerie silence that is only now and then broken by cries and shouts of the wounded and the low moans of the dying. A face swims in and out of focus, green-brown eyes stare into his own, worry and fear mirrored in those eyes that once used to sparkle with mischief even in the darkest of times.

"Bofur," he manages to say, surprised by the rawness of his throat and the strange sound of his voice, and the dwarf smiles at last.

"That's right, it's me. It's me, and I'm going to get you to a healer."

Bofur turns away then, and Bifur hears the sound of fabric being ripped apart. Before he knows what's going on, he has a bandage around his head. He winces and flinches.

"I'm sorry, Bifur, but I can't have you bleeding to death here now, can I? Someone's got to look after you, you nutter, how in Durin's name could you do something so stupid, that bloody axe has been in that thick skull of yours for decades, it could have stayed a while longer, you… you…"

His incoherent sentences end with what could be a laugh or a sob, Bifur doesn't know. His cousin is shaking, and his face is pale beneath the layer of dried blood that is covering his left cheek. He should never have become witness to this, to the horror of war, to the stench of death that lingers in the air.

Slowly, for his body is protesting against the movement, Bifur raises his right arm and manages to lay his hand onto Bofur's that is still applying pressure to the wound in his head. His cousin is trembling, only his hand is steady, and Bifur knows that he is barely holding it together in that moment.

"Bofur," he croaks, and again he marvels at the difference in his voice, which doesn't sound much like his at all. "Thank you."

The words catch in his throat, he gasps as he hears them spoken as if by a stranger, and Bofur's jaw drops as he stares wide-eyed at him. It would look ridiculous, but for some reason Bifur doesn't feel like laughing. He lowers his hand, gazing at the red on his fingers, and he can feel Bofur's hand starting to shake.

"Did you just –"

Bofur's voice is wavering, insecure in a way it never has been before.

These words. He can't even remember the last time he's said them, they sound strange and yet strikingly familiar.

_Âkminrûk zu._ Thank you.

"Thank you," he repeats, quietly, and it almost sounds like a question.

Bofur doesn't reply. He is still kneeling before him, gaze set on his mouth, his eyes wide and somehow shining suspiciously.

He wracks his brain to remember more, he knows that it must all still be there, if he can say two words then he can say more. They're not lost, these words he once knew, not lost to the beast as he has believed until now. The beast may have frightened them, but there is peace now, the beast is gone, and Bifur holds on to these thoughts as he struggles to sit upright.

"You… you alright?"

It doesn't sound right, something is missing, but it is _something_, and by the way Bofur nods and smiles and suddenly pulls him into a crushing hug he knows that this kind of peace might last.

"Oh, I am quite alright," Bofur says, his voice muffled as his face is still pressed against Bifur's hair. "Let's get you away from here, now, shall we?"

He doesn't wait for a response, and Bifur is grateful for it because he isn't so sure just how much talking he can manage. He groans as his cousin pulls him to his feet. It is then that his eyes fall onto the figure lying not far from the two dwarves. He stares at the still body of the orc, seeing the blade of the axe blinking where a ray of light is being reflected from the metal, and for a moment he is frozen on the spot.

It is over. He doesn't yet know what exactly that means, though. The battle has ceased, and against all odds they have won it, too. He is leaning heavily on his cousin, his mind is at peace, it is over. _It is over_.

"Come," Bofur mumbles and gently nudges him in the side, "let's go and find the others. I've seen some of them, Bombur and Dori… it'll all be alright now."

Bifur can hear how strained his voice has become, and realisation strikes hard as the words echo in his head.

It might not be so alright after all.

But he won't consider this possibility. Not now. For now, he will leave this battlefield behind and go on.

He allows Bofur to guide him across the battlefield, away from this place of death and grief, this place where some things have been lost and others have been found, the place from which he will start over. He doesn't look back. He looks ahead, eyes fixed on the shape of the mountain, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he will finally be home for good.

Home, and at peace.

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Translations:

Mukhuh mamkhihi khal. = May we find peace.

Barku khuzd ai-menu. = The axe of the dwarf is upon you.

Iskhab zai me, kasamhili. = Look at me, please.

Âkminrûk zu. = Thank you.


End file.
